


To Dream, To Wish

by DenaCeleste



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Disney Songs, Dreams, M/M, Torment, Witch!Stiles, drug use for ritual purposes, ritual potions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-08-20 01:53:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8232017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DenaCeleste/pseuds/DenaCeleste
Summary: “Please, work,” he begs of the concoction. “Please let me go to him. I can’t take it here much longer.” He chuckles, bitter and distraught. “To sleep, perchance to dream. Bottoms up.”
 Stiles will get to his family, to Peter, no matter what it takes. Even if that means putting himself to sleep, again and again. After all, it's the only way to dream.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when, one day, I'm making a playlist of Disney songs, and I get A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes from Cinderella stuck in my head. And then I wonder...
> 
> What if someone chose to put themselves to sleep, over and over again, trying to get back to their lover? Sounds like the perfect opportunity for Steter! 
> 
> My thanks to xCuteAsHale for her squeeing over it (I have since added 400 additional words during edits), and to Twist and Mys for being super supportive with the rest of Fandom Hell! Also to Mys for helping me with the summary, which somehow is harder than the writing of the thing.
> 
> Obviously, the song A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart Makes belongs to Disney and merely inspired this fic. *waves hands*

_A dream is a wish your heart makes_

Stiles grabs the third mug from the left, just like always. He pours water into it, leaving a small splash on the counter as he moves to the next steps. Red powder, blue pill, two this time, cloudy liquid, stir twelve times with the spoon of carved holly. 

Let it sit for five minutes. That’s always the worst part, these five minutes, trying not to hover as the ingredients marry for maximum effect. The house creaks around him, audibly empty, vacant rooms screaming with memories. 

_When you’re fast asleep_

The tick of the clock at five minutes is loud, just like always, as if time itself knows what he’s doing and approves. At least, he hopes it approves. 

He sips at the concoction, equal parts bitter and saccharine, letting the it sit under his tongue before swallowing with a grimace. Over and over he does this, until the mug is empty and his belly roils. 

_In dreams you will lose your heartaches_

Ten minutes. Always double the time it takes to marry. Kind of a consummation, if one thinks about it that way. He often does. It’s the only way to see them again. Dad. Peter. Their cat. His family. Anything but this half-life of pipe dreams and abandoned faith.

His feet barely make a sound as he moves upstairs to their bedroom. His bedroom. He fluffs the pillow on his side, the right side, then lays down, making sure his body is in the optimal position for comfort. Not that he’ll notice when he’s gone, but when he comes back to this hell--and it’s always when, never if--he prefers not to be sore. 

_Whatever you wish for, you keep_

“Hey babe,” Peter greets, brows raised in surprise as he gathers Stiles to his chest. “You were gone about a week.” 

Stiles clears his throat, but the lump of sadness refuses to budge. “Yeah, still perfecting the brew. I might be able to stay for an entire day this time. And come back in four days instead of six. We’re getting there.” 

Exhausted tears make their escape and Peter thumbs them away. “I treasure any time we get together, dear heart.” 

Stiles tightens his arms around Peter, squeezing his eyes shut, and wishing with all of his heart. “Me, too. I just wish it could be more. Doesn’t feel right yet.” 

“It will be, eventually. I have faith in you.” Soft lips brush against his forehead. Hope flutters with razor-edged wings in his chest, tearing him apart.

_Have faith in your dreams and someday_

“More, please, more!” Stiles pants, mouthing against Peter’s collarbone where it peeks out of his v-neck as he controls the cant of Stiles’ hips, pushing him away before they’re too far gone. 

“Not yet, not yet darling.” Peter looks just as wrecked as Stiles feels, yet he still insists on torturing them both. 

“When? When?” Stiles pleads. The light in Peter’s eyes dims to blankness.

“When you can stay for good,” Peter states in a flat voice, and Stiles flinches. 

_A rainbow will come smiling through_

“It’s been more than two weeks,” Stiles whines, pawing at Peter’s clothes. “I think I did it this time. I really do.” 

Peter groans and lets his head tip forward onto Stiles’ shoulder. “We agreed on three months, last time. Three months, and it’s certain you can stay. Any less, sweet man, and we can’t be sure...I can’t lose my sanity to your absence.”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes. “Your sanity. I get it, I do.” He draws away to catch his breath, and maybe his control as well. 

“Yours, too.” Peter presses a kiss to his forehead and absently fingers the faded scars that litter Stiles’ arms and chest. The worst of them were from his earlier experiments, which tended to explode all over him. He got better with practice, at least. 

“Okay, fine, then I want a back massage. You’ll see. It’s for good this time.” Stiles gives a flounce as he rolls to his belly and presents Peter with his back. “And do that thing with your nails that I like.” 

“As you wish,” Peter agrees quietly, and gets to work. Stiles can’t wait until the three months pass and they can finally start living their lives again. 

_No matter how your heart is grieving_

On day twenty-seven, Stiles wakes screaming, alone on his side of the bed. He claws at the ruined sheets, kicking the top sheet away and peeling himself from the mattress. 

“Peter! Peter!” He calls and calls, to no avail. “Please, please, not again.” 

He stumbles into the bathroom and ignores his reflection. He never looks in the other world the way he appears here, not completely. Good thing, too, because as it is Peter insists on feeding him up, making him stronger. 

All of Stiles’ energy has gone into traveling to Peter, which doesn’t leave much time for paying attention to his own upkeep. The bare minimum to function isn’t much here, but it takes a lot out of a witch to traverse between universes. He’s lucky he’s a Spark, otherwise this might have killed him.

He closes the shower curtain, collapses to the floor of the tub, and lets the cold needles of water stab into his skin. He stares as the water circles the drain in hypnotizing spirals and tries to muster up the desire to keep going. 

_If you keep on believing_

Stiles works like a man possessed. He has to get this down, has to make it right. More of the cloudy liquid this time, three blue pills, half again as much red powder, and stir thirteen times. 

No. No. No no no no no. It’s not working, doesn’t feel right, certainly doesn’t smell right. It’ll just send him back here again, if it still feels like this. Doing the same thing and expecting different results is the definition of insanity, right? Maybe something different. A sacrifice. An offering. 

He heaves himself up from the table, cradles the mug in quivering hands, and places it into the sink with care. The water runs at a trickle and he stirs three and a half seconds’ worth in with the almond wood spoon this time. 

A glob of spit plops into it with perfect aim. Three points for him. More, if he can get the godsbedamned thing to work. Five tears. He can squeeze out so many more than five, but he has them, which is the key. 

“Please, work,” he begs of the concoction. “Please let me go to him. I can’t take it here much longer.” He chuckles, bitter and distraught. “To sleep, perchance to dream. Bottoms up.” 

_The dream that you wish will come true_

“Stiles?” Hands shake him, holding his shoulders too tight, and a fuzzy form poises over him. “Stiles, are you--are you really awake?” A face comes into focus, and tears prickle behind Stiles’ eyes. 

“Dad? Where’s--” his teeth clicked as he shut his mouth. Did he go to the wrong place? The world spins as he tries to sit up, and his dad props him up in the bed. 

“Peter stepped out for a minute. You had us worried, you know. That spell backfired, and it could’ve been so much worse, but then you wouldn’t wake up--” His dad chokes on a sob. “You can’t do that to me, kid. I don’t give a shit if you’re grown and married, you can’t _do_ that.” 

Stiles pulls him into a tight hug and he notices his arms. Not spindly. Not delicate looking. In fact, they are toned and relatively blemish-free, showing none of the scars it took to get him back where he belongs. 

He counts his fingers. One two three four five. Six seven eight nine ten. All there. All fine. This must be real. 

The door slides open, and Stiles lets out a whimper at the sight of his wolf, more than a little worn and weary. “Peter. It...it’s you.” He holds out trembling hands, as if it might be a mirage. 

It wouldn’t be the first time Peter’s disappeared in a wisp of smoke prompted by fever dreams. 

Dreams. His stomach flips and he gets dizzy. “Am I awake? Or am I dreaming?” 

Peter frowns at him. “You’re awake, darling.” He comes closer, and Stiles moans when those warm palms cup his cheeks, the fingers curving around his ears and jaw like they’re supposed to. 

His father claps Peter on the shoulder. “I’ll let you two reconnect. I’ll come by again later. Might want to tell a nurse about him waking.” Stiles nods, but Peter turns to look the Sheriff in the eye. 

“Of course. Just, not yet. I need to--” Peter stops talking and trains his attention back on Stiles. “I need some time with him first.” 

“You got it. I’ll be back, Stiles. Promise.” With that assurance, his dad leaves, and the door clicks shut behind him. 

Peter kisses his forehead in the right spot, the spot he always does, in every universe--dream? universe? figment of his imagination?--and something loosens in his chest that lets him breathe easier. 

“Three months,” Stiles murmurs. “If I’m still here in three months, if I don’t wake up again, then I can believe it.” 

Peter’s frown fades and he nods in understanding. “Okay. As much time as you need, sweet boy. It’s not easy, coming back from something like this. Trust me, I would know.” A wry smile curves his lips, and Stiles reaches up to trace it with his fingertips. Warm, a little chapped. Real. He hopes.

“Yeah, I guess you would, wouldn’t you?” Stiles huffs a laugh. “I kept wishing for you. To get back to you. And every time I thought I had, I got ripped back out again.” 

“Time passes differently in dreams than in reality. Distance is also a strange concept.” Peter shrugs it off, then gets a familiar glint in his eye. “Does this mean I’m your dream come true?” 

Stiles snorts, then flushes. “Maybe. Don’t let it go to your head.” 

“I would never.” Peter lies with the most charming grin he can manage. Which is pretty damn charming. There’s a reason Stiles married the man. 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, so you say. This must be real life if you’re lying through your teeth already.” 

“My doppelgangers didn’t? How boring of them.” Peter somehow manages to slither into the bed with Stiles and curl up behind him. After a few minutes of adjusting, they settle down. 

“I knew you’d come back to me,” Peter whispers, his chin hooked over Stiles’ shoulder.

Stiles doesn’t quite manage to blink away tears and they trail into his mouth in quiet salty rivers. “I almost didn’t think I would.” 

“Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, little one.” Peter nuzzles the back of his neck, and goosebumps rise across his skin. 

“You keep calling me little, and yet I’m still taller than you,” Stiles complains, barely containing a giggle at the ticklish sensation of Peter’s goatee. 

“Yeah, but I’m _bigger_.” A nudge of his hips makes Stiles flush and hiss in protest. 

“You are such an asshole!” Even as he elbows Peter, he draws the other man’s arms around him, trying to hide in the shelter of his body. 

“Takes one to know one,” Peter says in a mocking sing-song voice. He tightens his hold and Stiles trembles when Peter uses one hand to pat him down, as if making sure he’s the one who won’t disappear. 

Maybe this is another dream, but Stiles feels more real than he has in so long, and he has to hold onto that. Maybe wishes do come true. He’ll wait and see. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come flail with me on [Tumblr](http://denaceleste.tumblr.com) and/or [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/denaceleste)!
> 
> Join us in the multi-fandom paradise of Fandom Hell on Discord by clicking [here](https://discord.gg/7Sa4b4D)!


End file.
